Pan's Labyrinth: The Labyrinth of the Faun(30)

Ferreira had witnessed too many failed hopes in his life. Had he really just lived for forty-eight years? He felt a thousand years old, and he was tired of all these young men who wished to fight, even if they did so on the side of right.

Pedro didn’t bother to answer his question. Mercedes’s brother just looked at him, with his fresh young face. What did he see? Probably just a sad old man.

“You can’t win this!” Ferreira snapped. “You don’t have enough guns, no safe shelter! You’ll all end up like Frenchie. Or worse.” He knelt at the edge of the brook to wash the blood off his saw and scalpel. For sure he would need these tools again far too soon. The cold water rushed over his hands. As cold as the world.

“You don’t need more men,” he said. “The ones you have need food! And medicine!”

Pedro still hadn’t said a word. Behind them the rebels were collecting firewood and whatever else the forest could give them.

“America, Russia, England . . . they’ll all help us,” he finally said. “Once they win the big war against the German fascists they’ll help us beat them here in Spain. Franco supported Hitler, but we supported the allies. Many of us died helping the resistance; we sabotaged the Tungsten mines in Galicia, which the Germans need to keep their weapon factories running . . . you think the allies will forget that?”

Ferreira straightened and put his tools back into his bag. Yes, they would forget. He felt so tired and angry. Maybe his anger was mostly caused by his exhaustion and lack of hope. And don’t forget the fear, he told himself. Fear that the good causes never win—that they can only hold up evil for a while.

“What about Mercedes?” No, even though he was annoyed by his own voice, he couldn’t let it go. “If you really loved her, you’d cross the border with her. This is a lost cause!”

Pedro bent his head, as if he were listening to his heart to find out if part of it agreed. Then he looked at Ferreira again.

“I am staying here, Doctor,” he said. “There is no choice.”

His voice was as determined as his face. Not a trace of doubt or fear.

We feel immortal when we are young. Or maybe we just don’t care that much about death yet?

As Pedro left to find his sister, Ferreira followed the young guerrilla with his eyes. Had he ever been like this? he asked himself. No. Or maybe yes. When he was still a boy and the world was black-and-white and there was good and evil. When had the world become less simple? Or was this just the perception of his exhausted heart?

Mercedes was picking berries while her brother talked to Ferreira. The forest offered so much to those who honored it. The woods had never frightened Mercedes, even when she was so little her mother had tried to make her fear it by telling her tales of living trees, watermen, and witches. For her the forest had always meant shelter, nourishment, and life . . . she was not surprised that it now protected her brother. Pedro looked so grown-up by now. As if he was the older one. Maybe by now he was, Mercedes thought, when she saw him walking toward her.

“Sister, you have to leave.”

He put his hands on her shoulders. The gesture betrayed the emotions his voice managed to hide. Mercedes reached into her pocket and handed him the key to the barn. She’d stolen it the day before from the capitán’s drawer while cleaning his room.

“Wait a few more days,” she cautioned. “If you raid the barn now, it will be exactly what he expects.”

Her brother took the key with a triumphant smile. For a moment he didn’t look grown-up at all, but like the eager boy Mercedes remembered so well. “Don’t worry. Leave it to me. I’ll be careful.” He put his arm around her shoulders and kissed her cheek.

Careful. He was never careful. He didn’t know the meaning of the word. Mercedes grabbed his hand, prolonging the precious moment. That’s what kept them all alive: stealing moments.

“I am a coward,” she whispered.

The surprise on Pedro’s face almost made her smile.

“No, you’re not!”

“Yes, I am. A coward . . . for living next to that beast of a man, doing his laundry, making his bed, feeding him. . . .What if the doctor is right and we can’t win?”

Pedro paused. Finally, he nodded, as if to acknowledge that possibility.

“Then at least we’ll make things harder for that evil son of a bitch,” he said.





The Razor and the Knife


In a hut in the old forest there once lived a woman named Rocio, whom the people of the surrounding villages called a witch. She had a son and a daughter from a man she had left after he used his belt on the children.

“I may have to leave you soon,” she said to them just a few days after her son had celebrated his twelfth birthday and her daughter was two months away from turning eleven. “I saw my death last night in my dreams. I am not afraid to go to the Underground Kingdom, but I am worried you two may be too young to deal with this world on your own. So I will give you both gifts that will keep you safe in case my dream comes true.”

The children exchanged a frightened glance. Their mother’s dreams always came true.

Rocio held her daughter’s hand and closed the girl’s fingers around the smooth wooden handle of a small kitchen knife.

“This blade will protect you from all harm, Luisa,” the witch said. “And it will do more. This knife cuts through the masks of men and reveals the true faces they so often try to hide.”